


Highway to Nowhere

by siennna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mark of Cain, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, Dean's on his own; no Sam, no Cas, just him, the Mark, and the empty roads ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway to Nowhere

"Don't follow me, Cas. Next time I won't miss."

…

After leaving the bunker, the first thing Dean does is drive to the middle of nowhere and leave the Impala in park with the keys on the front seat. He thinks about maybe leaving a note or something, but he wouldn't know what to write, so instead he disappears into the darkness, steals a shitty blue Honda, and hits the road with two days' worth of alcohol in the backseat.

Sam won't need a slip of paper to figure out what he's trying to say.

…

The guy at the Gas N' Sip counter gives him a weird look when he asks for the bathroom key, but Dean doesn't realize _why_ until he's standing in front of the stall's filthy mirror, staring at the terrifying stranger in his reflection. He looks _dead_. His skin is sallow and drawn like a corpse's, the bags under his eyes look heavy enough to drag down his face, and the bright green of his irises looks tarnished and dull, like old sea glass blanched by the sun.

They aren't dirty, but he washes his hands until they feel raw anyway. When he looks up at the mirror again, his breath tangles in his throat because _Cas_ is looking back at him.

Cas doesn't say anything, he just stares at Dean with those powerful blue eyes and stoic mouth, all hard jaw and angelic authority. He looks calm, even though his lips are split, his eyes are swollen and black, and blood seeps wetly from a gash in his forehead.

Dean can still remember the sensation of Cas's nose breaking against his fist. The way his body went limp when Dean flung him against the bookshelves. The hazy, clouded look in his eyes as Dean sat on his chest and punched him till his knuckles ached. The anguish on his face when Dean held the angel blade over his heart and glared down at him.

_Next time I won't miss._

"I'm sorry, man, I didn't—" he grips the sink with both hands and watches his knuckles go white. "I had to, Cas. I had to get away."

The angel blinks impassively at him, unmoved.

"Cas, I'm sorry. I'm fucking _sorry_ , okay? I…" Dean tears himself away from the sink as a fresh wave of nausea rolls through him. Still apologizing, he drops to his knees in front of the toilet and gags over the bowl, sweat pouring down his face and stinging his eyes. "I'm a monster, don't you get it? I can't be saved, no matter what you and Sam do. I'm done, Cas." He leans away from the toilet and buries his face in his shaking hands. His nails dig bloody crescents in his temples. "I'm fucking _done_."

"Sir, are you alright in there?" the employee calls nervously from outside.

He hates himself. He can't face anyone, not even the zit-faced loser on the other side of the door. With gritted teeth, Dean wipes his eyes, smashes the window with the butt of his knife, and climbs out of the bathroom like the cowardly waste of space he is.

…

He keeps taking cases because he's hungry. He's starving for blood, for murder, for suffering. In Wichita, he beheads three vamps with the same slash of his knife and in St Louis, he kills ten demons. On the outskirts of Greenfield, he stabs a pair of Kitsunes through the heart—it doesn't faze him that they're both just girls. At some point in Denver, he gets to a nest of shifters and manages to gank all thirteen of them. Men, women, children: everyone.

One kid—a real young thing that must've just started shifting a few years ago—pleads with him not to kill his momma, starts crying and begging with tears and snot smeared all over his face, shrieking at Dean _No, you can't, please, we're not evil._

Their screams barely reach his ears as he drives silver blades into their chests.

There might've been a time when this would've haunted him. He might've drank and cried and hated himself for it. He might've felt _remorse._

But Dean isn't that man anymore, so he just slides the knife back in his pocket and keeps walking.

…

He doesn't call and he doesn't call and he doesn't call because if he picks up the phone and tells Cas to come get him, he knows he'll end up going along with whatever fucked up black magic he and Sam have cooked up, and since _when_ has a last ditch effort to save a Winchester resulted in anything other than more pain and blood?

He doesn't turn on the tracking device Sam installed in his phone, either, so they can't sweep in and save him this time. He doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't, but Jesus he _wants_ to.

He wants to talk to them so desperately his teeth ache, but he can't give in now, not after two weeks of ironclad restraint, so when Dean reaches the outskirts of Kansas, he rolls down the window and chucks his phone into the black, churning waters of the KC reservoir.

…

The next night, two girls hit on him while he sits at the bar nursing shot after shot of whiskey.

"Hi," the blonde breathes. "I'm Serena and this is Jenny." The cinnamon-skinned girl beside her giggles and leans forward to shake his hand, dipping at an angel that offers a thoroughly revealing view of her breasts.

"Hi," he replies noncommittally, declining the handshake. "Dean."

"So, Dean," cinnamon drawls, "you need some company tonight?"

Her red bra matches her pouting lips and she's all but sitting in Dean's lap right now. It would only take a few clever words and a smirk to get her horizontal in the back of his car, and probably even less to convince her blue-eyed friend to join the party. But for once, Dean can't be bothered. With a bland smile he tells them no thanks and watches as they flounce away in a huff, annoyed at being rejected.

No one approaches him after that, so Dean spends the rest of the night alone, drinking away the roll of bills he stole two cities back. When the bartender finally kicks him out around two A.M., he goes home with his hands in his pockets, his head swimming, and the Mark burning on his arm like a coal.

…

He knows it's pointless, but he has to try it. The booze isn't working and the aching throb in his chest is too much to bear without something to take the edge off.

Dean sits down in the bathtub fully clothed and unsheathes the blade. Its silver metal looks sharp and seductive in the flickering yellow light: all dark and delicious like a lip-biting kiss.

He slides the knife over his palm quickly, one time, like this is just some stint for a ritual that requires blood. Before the wound can seal up, he slashes again across the dripping red slice, creating either an X or a very ironic cross. Then, before that one closes, he cuts again diagonally. And again. And again. With every incision, he carves deeper into the layer of blisters and scars that've formed on his palms over the years. It almost feels like getting a clean slate, except he's seen how much blood these hands have shed, how many lives they've wrung out and crushed, so he knows a new beginning isn't actually possible. He'll never be rid of the darkness and murder than lurk beneath his nails like soot; he'll never truly wash his hands of what he's done. There will always be something sticking to his bones, weighing him down like an anchor.

So, Dean takes control of what he can, and he cuts. One, two, three. Up, down, left. He's breathing so hard it echoes in the still bathroom. His chest is tight and he feels anxious. The knife glitters up at him: jeering and cruel and covered in his own blood.

Four, five, six. Up, down, right.

Red handprints slick up the porcelain walls of the tub when he finally climbs out to put the knife back in his duffle bag. He tucks it neatly in its place, right alongside a tube of toothpaste and his wallet-size photo of eight year old Sam. Lying on his back in bed, he clenches his fists and watches the wounds ooze onto the sheets.

"I hate you," he whispers to himself. "I fucking _hate you_."

When the cuts finally close at midnight, Dean ambles into a bar and drinks until the ghosts in his head stop screaming.

…

At one A.M. on a Friday, he calls Sam from a phone booth in Littleton, Colorado.

"Hello?" Sam's voice sounds good. He's sounds healthy, like he's doing okay without Dean, and Dean could not be fucking happier about that. "Hello?" Sam repeats. "Who is this?"

When Sam was five he always wanted to call John while he was on a job (this was back before Sam knew what their father did, of course), so to appease his little brother without bothering their dad, Dean would unplug the telephone and hand the receiver to Sam, telling him that their Daddy was real busy so he couldn't say anything back, but he would be more than happy to listen to what Sam wanted to tell him. For hours sometimes, Sammy would sit on the grubby floor of whatever motel they were currently in with his tiny hands holding the phone to his ear, talking to their dad about everything from his favorite stories to what Dean made them for lunch.

Dean wonders when he stopped taking care of Sam like that.

He and his dad had an unspoken pact to always try and keep Sammy safe. Sam wasn't built for this life, simple as that. Even though John pressed it on him just as much as he had with Dean, he never really wanted Sam to fall into this line of work. Sam was supposed to be the good kid at Stanford, making a life for himself the honest way instead of living from motel to motel with guns in the backseat and fake IDs in the glove compartment.

He failed himself and his father for allowing Sam to become just as fucked up as the rest of them. Sam was gonna be a _lawyer_ for Christ's sake.

"Anyone there? Hello?"

Dean mouths _I'm sorry_ and then hangs up the phone.

…

Two Wednesdays later, he finds himself at their old house in Lawrence.

He doesn't go in because people live here now—real nice people with day jobs and wholesome kids who don't deserve to meet someone as screwed up as Dean—so instead he just stands on the sidewalk out front and takes it in. There's Sammy's old bedroom with the glow-in-the-dark stars John pasted on the ceiling, and the front porch steps that Dean used to take two at a time when Mary called him in for lunch. His eyes linger over the roof their dad tiled himself and the shiny paintjob Dean helped him with that one summer. He still remembers the smell of his mom's apple pie on Sunday mornings and the way she would kiss his forehead every night before bed. _Angels are watching over you, Dean_ , she would say. _You're such a special little boy._

Beneath his rolled down sleeve, the mark burns, almost as if to remind him of how wrong she turned out to be.

"Can I help you, mister?" a small voice asks from below. A quick look downward reveals that it's a little blonde kid with brown eyes the size of the moon.

With a jolt of self-hatred, Dean realizes that he's afraid to be around children right now. He stuffs his hands in his pockets where they can't hurt anybody and asks, "Do you live here?"

Blondie bobs his head eagerly. "My mommy and daddy live here too, and so does my big brother Johnny. Are you our new neighbor? Johnny said our new neighbor's name is Max, is your name Max?"

Dean tries to smile but it falls flat. "Nah, my name's not Max."

He starts to say "I'm Dean," but then he stops himself. Even his own name feels like a curse right now. "Nobody," he tells him instead. "I'm nobody, kid."

…

On a whim, he buys a new cell phone.

He knows Cas's number by heart and he wants to call him so badly that his hands shake when he thinks about it, but he _can't_ because he doesn't want to be found this time. He doesn't want to be _saved._

Dean carries the damn thing around in his pocket for three days before he finally realizes he's being ridiculous; he's gotta either call the angel or get rid of the damn phone. No more of this half-ass, indecisive crap. When he calls Cas a day later, he's sitting on a park bench in the middle of Idaho, kicking the toe of his boot distractedly at clumps of crabgrass. The dial tone buzzes for about two seconds before a familiar voice states, "Hello."

And just like that, Dean can't speak. His tongue shrivels inside his mouth and the words die on his lips.

"Hello?" Cas repeats.

Dean hangs up. He paces the grass for five minutes before sitting back down with his lower lip wedged between his teeth. He decides to text him instead.

**It's me.**

Cas tries to call him back, but he doesn't answer.

**No phone calls, Cas. Gotta be like this.**

_**Where are you, Dean?** _

**Doesn't matter. I just want you to know I'm sorry for what I did. I'm so sorry, man. I wish I could take it all back.**

_**Dean, I forgave you the moment you left. I just want you to come back to the bunker. Please, Sam and I can help you.** _

**I don't need your help. You or Sam. I made my bed and now I gotta lie in it.**

_**This is not just about you and you know it, Dean.** _

**I'm taking care of it. Don't worry about me anymore, alright?**

_**Why does it feel as though you are saying goodbye?** _

Dean looks up from the small screen at the bustling, untroubled world around him: toddlers cry for more ice cream, men flirt with women, little kids laugh and holler on the playground. The clouds move unhurriedly across the sky, like migrating turtles or silver fish drifting along a pond. He sucks in a deep breath and taps out a shaky reply.

**Because I am.**

_**Call me, Dean. Please.** _

He doesn't. He _can't._

**You're a good guy, Cas. Don't forget that.**

After that, Dean puts the cell in his pocket. He doesn't look at Cas's response and he doesn't answer the seventeen unread messages that come after. He just hops in his car and starts driving again, with the radio at a deafening volume.

His pocket won't stop buzzing, though, so on his way out of Idaho, Dean rolls down the window and chucks the phone to the side of the road.

…

The day before he 'takes care of business,' he gets drunk as all hell on the floor of his shitty, rat-infested motel room. One final hoorah, he tells himself. By midnight, bottles of liquor are scattered around him like trophies, all sparkly and poisonous-looking in the dim light of the room's flickering lamp. He wishes he could spend his last night doing something profound, like meditating or mulling over his life, instead of swilling cheap spirits next to a pile of dirty sheets. But, unfortunately, he just isn't that guy.

Wasted and miserable, he realizes that _he's_ the guy who manages to fuck up everything that matters to him. For a long time, his life was all about Sammy, hunting, and booze, and he was okay with that. He liked it. But now that hunting has been tainted by the Mark and now that Sam is now broken beyond repair thanks to him, the only thing left is liquor. His entire life revolves around something that helps him forget—and isn't that ironic? Isn't that empty and terrible?

Isn't that so fucking _fitting_?

When Dean finally passes out sometime after three A.M., he dreams of darting black shapes and bloody, quivering hands that drag him down, down, down to burning pits and lakes of fire. He dreams of dark smiles and gory teeth, and the dull clink, clink, clink of chains dragging along the floor. He dreams of murder and chaos and the sick, metallic scent of blood. He dreams of black eyes and blunt knives.

When Dean wakes up the next morning and remembers what he's about to do, he finds himself longing for the familiar, suffocating swathe of nightmares. At least then he'd know what to expect.

…

That night, he summons Death in an old abandoned barn in the heart of Ohio. He fills the place with trays of greasy Mexican food and stupid colorful shit he found at the party store beforehand, in hopes of appealing to both Death's appetite and sense of irony. Bottles of tequila gleam in the tinted glow of the rainbow lights overhead. The still-burning summoning circle crackles quietly in the background. Dean can feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

"So," Death drawls, tapping his spidery fingers against the taco platter. "Why have you brought me here, Dean?"

Dean licks his lips nervously. "Friendly reunion a good enough reason?"

Death watches him fidget with unmoved eyes. "No."

"Right, didn't think so," Dean exhales. He pours himself a shot and slides one over to Death, who eyes the drink in bland amusement and doesn't touch it.

"I'm quite busy, Dean. I don't have all of eternity to wait for an answer."

Dean's heart lurches and settles. Time oozes like blood, like syrup. His sweating hand tightens around the folded picture of Sammy in his pocket. "I called you here because I need you to kill me," he says eventually, eyes trained on the amber liquid before him.

Death raises a single black brow in intrigue. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, it is," he says. Dean forces himself to swallow his pride and meet Death's black, unfathomable stare. "At this point, it'd be best for the whole damn planet if I just died already."

"Oh, I couldn't agree more," Death rejoins. "You Winchesters stir up messes wherever you go, and to be frank, I'm quite sick of cleaning them up."

Dean can't help but agree with that. "So, you'll kill me? For good this time?"

Death glares at him. "Do not insult me, Dean. I can't kill you because the Mark will not allow it, but I _can_ move you to another plane where you will not be able to harm anyone. Consider it solitary confinement, if you will."

A strange sort of calm settles over him, then. By doing this, he'll finally be able to help people rather than harm them, like he used to back in the day when he was one of the good guys. If he leaves, Sam won't have to sully his soul with black magic and Cas won't have to deal with a heartless, violent monster who nearly killed him out of anger. Both of them can stop worrying about his sorry ass and finally move on with their lives. The world as a whole will not have to look at Dean Winchester's sallow, pathetic face any longer, and Dean could not be happier about that. This is the smartest thing he's done in a long, long time, and it feels fucking _good._

"So it's a deal?" Dean asks after a beat.

Death, oblivious to Dean's internal monologue, smiles darkly and stands. "If this is what you would like, Dean, I'd be more than happy to oblige." He extends a long, reedy arm and unfolds his hand like a spider, all thin fingers and translucent skin. "Come along then, hm?"

And without another thought, Dean takes Death's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Ugh, I needed to get the finale out of my system, so I wrote this giant ball of angst. Now to move on to bigger, fluffier things! :D Feedback would be amazing, please let me know what you think!


End file.
